


Perfect Pitch

by welcome2atlantis



Series: Thematically Appropriate Love [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Awful flirting, M/M, Pre-Relationship, gratuitous use of music metaphores, probly greatly inaccurate, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-19 00:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15498222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welcome2atlantis/pseuds/welcome2atlantis
Summary: Yahaba struggles to sync up with his new ace.  A difference in musical taste provides an answer, as well as a start of something in their off court relation.





	Perfect Pitch

**Author's Note:**

> This is an improved upon and edited version of something I originally posted on tumblr a couple years ago. Though I'd share.

The way the team works on the court is like an orchestra, and he’s the conductor. With each swish or flick of his hand he sets the ball and his teammates respond. They practice diligently, perfecting and steadying their individual rhythms. Third rhythm, second rhythm, first rhythm, zero rhythm. Each player is strong in their own right, that’s what it takes to get a chair, become a regular. To play. At Aobajosai they practice and preach that every win or loss belongs to the team. A soloist will never reach the level of a full blown symphony. A single player will never amount to what eight players can achieve. If only Yahaba could find the words to explain. Maybe then he wouldn’t have had to push Kyoutani into a wall. Maybe then he wouldn’t be fighting with the new ace if Yahaba could only manage to express how much more he could be with a little wind added to his brass, some strings to make it flow and a drum to set the tempo. 

It’s infuriating, he can clearly hear Kyoutani playing off beat, ignoring the rhythm of volleyballs against skin, the chorus of ‘don’t mind’s. Instead Kyoutani bellows out a cacophony of disorder that Yahaba can’t understand.

“What are you listening to?” Yahaba startled out of his thoughts and turns to Kyoutani, who’s been sulking over their lost practice match for the entire bus ride. Not that Yahaba blames him. He feels the same. He just keeps his song of disappointment in his head --afraid to sing it off key-- while Kyoutani has no problem sharing his tone with anyone.

“Wagner’s Gotterdammerung.” He says without thinking, Kyoutani’s face scrunches up in a way that makes Yahaba’s tempo stutter every time. And it’s not cute. It’s not cute at all, Yahaba doesn't want to smooth the wrinkles from his face like he does his sheet music. 

“What in the hell language is that?” Kyoutani demands. “Sure as hell ain’t Japanese.”

“It’s German.” His response has Kyoutani making a different kind of scrunched up face. One equally not cute. 

“Weird. Why’re you listening to music in German anyways?”

“The music isn’t in German.” Yahaba explains with a slow drawl, like Kyoutani’s dumb for not already knowing, trying to cover up the softness he feels drumming in the background softly with his own voice of condescension. Maybe the songs he sings to Kyoutani aren’t as honest as they could be. “It’s classical music.”

“You would listen to classical.” Kyoutani says, unimpressed and unaffected by Yahaba’s attempts to talk down to him. “It fits that snooty image of yours.”

“Rude, you should be nicer to your captain.” His reprimand is only met by a snorts in derision.

“You sound like Oikawa.” Yahaba manages to keep from flinching. He swallows the bitter staccato of pressure in his throat, the pressure to live up to Oikawa and the echo of his senpai’s leadership. He’s about to throw a half baked insult back when Kyoutani beats him to speaking first.

 

“Sorry,” he grumbles to his lap. Yahaba can see him chewing on the inside of his cheek and squinting – a face that looks menacing, but to those attuned, very telling.  
“It’s fine, I know you don’t mean it like that.” Which is true, but the truth can’t dull the edges of sharp words. Kyoutani’s apology does soothe the residual sting. 

“What kind of music do you listen to Kyoutani-kun?” He asks after an intermission of silence.

“Just, whatever really,” he says with a shrug. “Whatever's good. A strong beat, something I can work out to.” Yahaba can sense Kyoutani’s circling the real answer. 

“Being vague is almost as much fun as other things,” Yahaba says sarcastically.

Kyoutani huffs, brows pinching tight with irritation. Still not cute. “Metal, I like heavy metal, okay?”

“Huh, I guess that makes sense...” Yahaba concedes with a thoughtful nod. And it’s true and almost serendipitous in a way. How their musical preference align so perfectly with Yahaba’s current issue. Searching for a way to mix his classical, by-the-book standards with Kyoutani’s heavy harmony and intensely open passion. 

“If you’re gonna laugh at how predictable it is you can shove it.”

“It’s not that jackass, jeez,” Yahaba rolls his eyes at their ace and his predictability--ever growly and defensive. “It’s like… how do I put this? The style and time signature and beat of metal. And just... “ Yahaba waves his hands vaguely, trying to search for his own words “It’s different, but good in it’s own way. Not for everyone, but those who do like it love it. Metal doesn't do anything halfway, like you. It’s harsh and raw and apologetically it’s own.” Yahaba coughs awkwardly when he realizes he’s getting prosaic and Kyoutani’s staring at him. He seems startled, his ears going red like when Iwazumi praises him. Yahaba realizes something suddenly as he watches Kyoutani grumble some unheard retort. Something that should have been obvious a long time ago.

“Here, you might like this,” Yahaba offers Kyoutani an earbud. Though he looks at Yahaba suspiciously Kyoutani takes the offering. Yahaba switches the composer – picks Modest “I liked metal before it was cool’ Mussorgsky. A man of dramatic, bold, and often dark A Night on Bald Mountain plays and Yahaba leans back and closes his eyes...

Maybe he shouldn’t be forcing his own rhythm onto Kyoutani and expect him to match time. Just like Oikawa tailors his sets to each player, Yahaba is seeing he needs to adjust his tempo to fit his teammates too. Now that he can hear the intention of Kyoutani’s beat he can start working on matching that pace. Start with just the two of them --a duet-- and work from there. Adding each new section one at a time until Yahaba can mesh them into a single band once again. 

He feels Kyoutani shift, leaning into him, their arms pressing together as Kyoutani looks at Yahaba’s phone. “This is actually decent,” Kyoutani murmurs. “I can kinda understand why you like it.”

Yahaba can’t help a whisper of a smile. Maybe the two of them can compose something together. A merging of styles to create something unique to them. Something that could resonate so strong as to culminate in their attendance at nationals.

Perhaps things might even change for them off the court, Yahaba concedes, as he too leans into Kyoutani.


End file.
